Where our feet can lead us to
by puzzlepuzzle
Summary: The chronicles of Athrun's relationship with Cagalli after the First War and the years that followed, each a fragment of a different dance in the many places around the world. From Russia to Venezia, each dance held a different but shared memory.
1. Mazurka

Disclaimer: I own nothing of GS/GSD. R&R please.

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Mazurka 

The champagne was like gold dust in water tonight- golden colored and chilled, dizzying and sweet in its slight acidity. It made her shiver with an unnatural pleasure when she sipped it from the slender flute a passing man had offered to her, and she felt as if she would choke from the splendor and sensuousness of the world she had been put in.

The chandeliers were flashing their sparkling smiles at those who were below them, their lights an assault on the senses, ravishing the jewels the women wore on their hair, neck, arms and hands. The slightly more discreet gems men wore on their cravats and cufflinks were not spared either- a particularly spectacular pair of diamonds on a French minister's wrists made Cagalli avert her eyes.

It did not quite help, the place was steaming with humanity. She was familiar with all this- but being familiar did not make her any more used to it than she would be even after another twenty years of these nights. Her eyes were afraid to look anywhere but her lap at times- afraid that they would be whirled away with the rest of her senses by the myriad and meshes of colors everywhere. Nearly all the women were fighting to look the most spectacular, some had gone so far to have placed their magnificent jewels on their daughters' necks and bosoms, trying to ensnare potential candidates for son-in-laws. It was unlikely for them to find another sea with such supreme catches- tonight, the soiree was filled with the most powerful men and women of their times.

Her mouth parted in slight irony and humour- she was one of them. The Princess of the powerful Emirates.

To-night, she was wearing jewels like them all. Her blonde hair had been brushed until her arm had began to ache, and only then, had she put the lacquer brush down. Her feet were tiny and cramped into the chocolate-satin slippers, and the ankles secured with moon and cream pearls that crisscrossed the white skin. They stepped across the gigantic chessboard that was the floor- behemoth slabs of jet-polished granite and milky marble slanted adjacent in diamond formations- making the people who stepped on the floor pawns, bishops, queens and kings.

' Which am I tonight?' She wondered.

Her gown rustled and whispered when she sat down. A few women tittered as she reluctantly settled amongst them, the weight of her gown making her feel like part of the upholstery, although she carried it off beautifully unlike some other girls.

The same few women who complimented on how beautifully-turned out she was for the night glanced at their own daughters- comparing no doubt, afraid their offspring would be robbed of their rightful catches. She did not understand the slightly pointed looks however, for Cagalli's thoughts were elsewhere even as she smoothed the heavy, luxurious texture of her gown. It was like all the others she owned, those that were stored in her oak wardrobe for nights like these, only for nights like these. This one though, was a rich chocolate, creamy from some angles, a soft ebony-sepia from most, and its hem swept the floor easily, ruched at her rear, enhancing her curves to provide a womanly, becoming silhouette.

Her shawl was a gauzy, opal-tinted material that hung about her elbows, attached to the edges of her gloves, not even covering her shoulders, useless in the cold of the night but only just sufficient for a place like this. The only reason why the ensemble was perfect was because her gown had no sleeves and no collar- its neckline was a confluence below her collarbone. And her arms assumed a creamier tone beneath the fabric, expanding into a glowing honey color once the eyes of an onlooker were drawn up her arms to her shoulders and her unsmiling face.

The people around her were making light-conversation, and Cagalli was expected to as well. Europe was in its prime, the recovery stages were already over, and the world was fighting to forget the pain of the war by buying the dreams they had had previously, boats against the current. The world outside was a gloomy, cold one, the trees were already bare because of winter, and this winter was said to be the coldest one in Russia yet. Fur coats and mozettas were a necessity in a land like this, frozen and wintry. The women had arrived here in heavy fur coats, as had Cagalli, but she had been appalled to see how the rich furs had been another section of the competition to outshine the others.

On her way into the palace, she had already counted twelve soft minks, four ash-and-sepia lynxes, six tender ermines, eighteen snowy infant harp seals, five autumn-colored, sad-eyed foxes and their white-tipped tails, two golden sables with black beads pressed in hollowed eye sockets, about thirty chinchillas, ten chocolate otters, twenty angoras in various shades, countless coyotes, their heads dangling off creamy shoulders and their faces curved in hideous laughs, and one horrific, glorious down of black swan feathers.

Those had been worn for less than ten minutes in the open cold, and they would be displayed on the hundreds of curved, golden racks now, until the guests left.

Cagalli had been born in a world of affluence, as had Athrun. But while he was used to the teeming sores of riches, being a Coordinator and a world that was even more prosperous than Earth in its self-sufficiency and luxuries, Cagalli had never witnessed such an ostentatious waste the colonies of the Earth Alliance showed with such carelessness.

If the world was on its way to recovery, then in its attempt to move on lay the loss of its soul, for the people who could afford to forget in nights like these.

And here she was.

Cagalli smiled vaguely at the Prime Minister's daughter, for like her, Cagalli was here to add to the decadence, show the world how it had recovered, put up the façade that nothing would change, the past before the war had ravaged it had never gone anywhere. Technically, nothing was, now that the horrific battle of Jachin Due was over and the peace treaty on its way. But the girl who sat opposite her, admonishing another one affectionate and softly in her careful, saccharine tones, was clearly well-educated, every girl there was. They weren't imbeciles or Philistines. Their eyes were sharp and they knew. That was something all of them had in common- they knew.

Yet, the difference was that Cagalli yearned to be amongst the men, arguing about the important things, conversing about the plans that would make the future bright, instead of discussing paintings and how their portraits would be taken, and the flowers that they grew at home the way the men expected them to do. That was something inherently different here on the Earth in relative comparison to the Plants, the line of inequality between men and women was drawn fine, but its presence still existent.

The Prime Minister's daughter wasn't quite as young as Cagalli and some of the other girls, but her face was still beautiful if a little overtly painted for tonight. Her native tongue was quaint in its melodious slant when she communicated with her consorts, and her eyes strayed, not less than a few times, to Cagalli. Cagalli, amongst all the women and their daughters, felt distant and could not sense the slight envy of the Prime Minister's daughter.

Her eyes strayed to the periphery, watching the men speak in the palace of Saint Petersburg. Ourside, the snow was falling heavily, the temperatures were aiming to hit a record minimum. The last she had checked, the temperature had dropepd to negative twenty-seven.

Where was he?

The orchestra struck up its beat, and the women began to murmur again, standing up from their gilded, richly adorned chairs and discreetly adjusting their necklines and the gems that circled their bodies as the men strode over, each offering one the roses in their breast pockets. Cagalli tried to hide behind every girl she could get near to, but they were whisked off, one by one, some clearly prodded forward by their eager mothers, some eager themselves, to be asked to dance.

Soon, however, Cagalli was reached, and with a silent curse, she realized that she had been so concerned with searching for a familiar face that she hadn't noticed a man who had already sidled up to her.

She watched in semi-disgust and semi-amusement, as the president she had spoken to only mere hours ago reached across. His eyes were not sharp, they were slightly glazed and his smile was a strangely slackened one.

But she proffered it politely to, cringing inwardly when she noticed how the once firm expression had somehow given way to a mulish one, no doubt from all the wine he had consumed. He had been a force to reckon with only a while ago, he had been the unfaultable Zeus of his country, now he was Pan.

He kissed her hand, and she was glad the gloves masked her skin, gloves made of silk so fine it appeared to be milk, white and flowing on her fingers and wrists. The pearls she wore swung in a wide angle as she bowed her head slightly to acknowledge him.

"May I have this dance?"

And in that minute, Cagalli was trapped. She shook her head slightly, nonetheless, the pearls catching the lights as they swung from her earlobes and the semi-circlet of equally fine or even finer pearls aligning the shape of her head, perfect against the gold of her hair. And she cursed her rashness, angry at her lack of thinking. He looked shocked that she had not agreed, and then a bit of rational irritation entered the haze of his semi-soberness.

"I'm sorry, sir," someone behind them cut in, "The princess is disagreeing because she's already agreed to dance with _me_."

His voice was strident, brimming with a soft politeness that detached the moment from its logical sequence because its familiarity was both relieving and joyous to Cagalli's ears.

Delighted, she spun around, naturally missing the slightly put-off expression the president's face was shrouded in now. Gladly, she put her hand in his offered one, and he whirled her to the centre of the masses- the couples were already revealing their ingrained abilities at moving in the high circles of society and as well as on the floor. They had been born in families like these ones, this was natural for them. And yet, Cagalli, her background as prestigious as these men and women, was awkward and unable to hold her partner's hand without a little color rising in her cheeks.

Athrun had take hold of her hand. And she had allowed him to follow her back to Orb when he'd requested to. He would have found a job as a soldier or an engineer, clearly, he had no need to be with her, but he had wanted to be there, and somehow convinced her to let him be. Sometimes she wondered if all he wanted was to escape from the implications of being Patrick Zala's son in the Plants, not that he particularly wanted to be with her. And it wasn't that she regretted allowing him to stay by her side as much as he was doing now, but wondered if he would one day.

"What's the matter?" Athrun asked, bemused.

His lips parted slightly and sensuously, and Cagalli colored a little. He did not notice, however, he was concentrating on leading her. He was no different from her, he had been born in a house of a high standing in the Plants, he understood places like these, he knew how to move in time with the orchestra, he was one with the viol's song and the basses' dying laments as each beat led on to the next one.

"I don't know how to dance mazurkas," Cagalli said awkwardly. She looked too young to be here amongst these jaded ones, too fresh to be corroded into the glittering, immense world of men and girls, and his heart leapt over a missed beat as his eyes settled on her face. He had chosen to follow her to her country once the war had ended, and sometimes he had asked himself why. He didn't know why, but it felt _right_.

It felt right seeing her every morning, being with her for nearly every hour of the day, losing himself in her smile and her frantic energy to live, her zealous ferocity to find the good in the world and to love it with a passion that Athrun had never known before he'd met her.

"I'm surprised," He admitted, taking the lead more overtly now, "Aren't you supposed to know?"

"Supposed," She shrugged simply, "I found other things more titillating than learning how to put emphasis on the third beat and aspects like those."

She was a fast learner however, if she didn't know how to dance the mazurka, at least she knew how to look like she did as she followed blindly. Athrun was savoring the sensation of having her in his arms so openly without the usual pretences of distance and protocol so much, that he scarcely taught consciously; he simply moved and she followed quite naturally.

"Athrun," Cagalli said reluctantly, her feet pattering after his, losing its initially steady, languid rhythm the minute she spoke, "Where were you?"

"In a corner," he replied easily, his feet, so attuned to the stiff march of a soldier now flowing and in time with the accented third step of the mazurka. Her eyes were so golden and filled with such intent; that he found that he could not bear to correct her and ask her to call him by his false name.

She tried to follow but gave up eventually, and he smiled mischievously and steered her. Irritated, she pulled a face at him, although he was entirely charmed by her as a result, and she unconsciously bit her lip.

She muttered, disconcerted by his readiness to reply, "You shouldn't have hidden away."

"I'm your bodyguard," He reminded her tactfully.

He swept her in a strange accented step, foreign to her feet but not to his. The orchestra was in the midst of rallentando, and the speed changed again, although its subtle decrease caused her to botch the pattern she had been so accustomed to already. She stepped and stumbled after him, biting her lip a little, more than a few seconds late after the other women had completed the movement with their own partners.

And the slow-steps were painful for her, her grace was not a trained one, delicate like these women who took mincing steps towards their men, she was fighting to be free, fighting to run rather than step awkwardly as they danced the mazurka. The Russians might have cried at seeing her massacre the delicate rhythm they were so proud of seeing in their pieces, but Athrun was a match for both her unfamiliar steps and her hopeless matching of her body to the rubato the conductor provided.

"Yes- but," Cagalli said stubbornly, holding his arm and interrupting herself as she twirled a little, her gown stroking his feet as her body turned away from him and back to him, and then she continued, a little breathless, "You know how to deal with-,"

She lost her words and gestured vehemently at the people around them, lost in the sorrowful melody and the wistful accompaniment. A single violin was weeping now, its strings trembling and the moment was tender and as fragile as the way he held her.

"I came, didn't I?" Athrun whispered. His eyes were smiling.

She sighed softly. "Yes, you did."

A few couples around them were murmuring. Athrun was as aware as Cagalli of what they were saying, how he was a mere bodyguard who shouldn't have had the gall to have even held her hand. But if he realized this, he gave no indication of it. He was flawless in his steps, his posture very fine and his hair a midnight silk under the light. A few girls were looking at him, muttering things he wasn't concerned about. Cagalli, however, was ill at ease, she was jumpy and couldn't concentrate. And she wondered if the word would spread, even though Orb had no direct dealings with Russia that she was dancing with him, he who the world recognized only as her bodyguard. Would he be exposed as Patrick Zala's only son?

"Is everything fine?" Athrun asked gently, his eyes keen on her face. She licked her lips nervously, tasting the slightly unnatural sweetness that was a combination of the champagne and the light gloss that pinkened her lips so they took on the appearance of wet, slightly ripened berries.

"I- I suppose so." She conceded reluctantly. He leant closer, decreasing the little distance between them even more than before, and she flinched involuntarily.

"Step after me now," he instructed, "You are perfect now, and you will succeed if you trust yourself and me."

She snorted a little, and the pearls swung around her neck, "I'm a damned fool at this. I'm afraid to puncture your feet. And I'm afraid they'll talk."

His lips quirked, they upturned instantly, "I'll take my chances at both."

They were a strangely understated couple amidst the glittering seduction of the others. For the pearls cast no light on anyone, rather, they drew the light inwards and gave her a glow that surpassed the ruby, sapphire, amethyst and emerald lights that fought with each other without a certain victor being marked.

And Athrun blended in with the rest of the men, he wore a full black suit that was customary for the men. But he had refused an ornate pin at his throat or rubies at his wrists; instead, he wore a single, dazzling blood rose because Cagalli hadn't dared to take it, not when people would see, anyway. His cufflinks were not ostentatious; they were a simple, sterling silver under the suffocating fabric of the night.

They might have been drowned by the kaleidoscope of colors that night, somber, elegant statures amongst splendid, full-colored lights, like a pair of delicate, silent moonflowers in a field of showy red poppies, but their eyes found solace in each other's faces.

The night was a little bit more bearable after. And she still never found the beat for the mazurka or how the third stroke of the lead violin's bow in every bar was supposed to be performed and reflected by her feet. But she felt it in every mazurka she heard subsequently, and it was that distinct sense of heavy longing and indescribable beauty that peppered the weight of the steps she took in accordance with Athrun's lead.

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A/N: There it is- the first dance. If you have other sorts you'd like to see, please don't hesitate to say so. I've written about five and have ran out of other dance deas... Help! 


	2. Waltz

Disclaimer: I own nothing of GS/GSD. R&R please.

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Waltz 

Initially, she had protested, saying that she wanted to go back as soon as possible. But the leaders had insisted on her staying here to enjoy the spring sights and the city that functioned on the waters that it had been founded upon.

She was beginning to enjoy herself immensely.

Perhaps, it had to do with the fact that festivals were in full swing and that they were both incognito, amongst the very people who had survived the war and were living to the best of their abilities. Colorful flakes of papers and flowered confetti showered them in vibrant orange, pinks and reds wherever they stumbled in St. Mark's square, and the stone lions with their extended wings gazed down and them with something like haughty disdain in their eyes, elevated high on their pillars, grey fingers extending towards the azure. Behind the town was a little portion that hadn't been able to get ready in time for the carnivale, it had been heavily damaged by the rampant trampling of mobile weapons only a year ago. The rest of Venezia, however, was intact, only a little crack showed in the entire porcelain mask, and the paint on it was more of less perfect.

The mask they'd gotten for her was slipping off, nervously; she fumbled a little at the black silk ribbons she'd tied at the back of her head. The semi cat shape was a painted gold, lined with white details. Cagalli had been reluctant to buy one off the numerous stalls that flaunted their wares, burgeoning with every mask she could imagine, but the leaders who had came out to see the streets with them had assured Athrun and her that those were the most essential in being unrecognized on the streets, and they had therefore taken full advantage of the ornate, beautifully-crafted masks hanging off the bauta stands, featuring one of the most prominent crafts here in Venezia

But they'd gotten lost in the thrusting crowds, although Athrun hadn't been too concerned.

"We'll find our way back," He assured her. He was wearing his own mask to blend in with the crowds as the people, every single one wearing their masks, fought to try the specialties and watched parodies of swordfights while standing on the aged, cobbled pavements.

She nodded in response, enjoying his steady pace as they walked together. As strange as it seemed, Cagalli had been requested to wear a gown and her bodyguard a suit and large, sweeping hats with magnificent ostrich plumes. But she began to understand what the officials had meant, had they walked the town in normal clothes, they would have been immediately picked up.

For the square and the radius that stretched as far as the eye could see was filled with masked Venetians and not a few visitors like them, singing and dancing and celebrating the beginning of Lent in rich clothes fit for Tzars and rulers. Next to them, nobody would be able to set Athrun and her apart.

The gondoliers were in full swing, a few had begun to sing while carrying their passengers around the island in the seas. Today, the water was calm and like the deep blue of a glass brooch Cagalli had seen once.

One particular gondola was clearly managed by highly-lauded undine, and yet, she noted with irony, it wasn't so much his ability to row. Instead, he ceased to row once he'd carried his passengers into the middle of the sea facing the horizon, and he began to sing. A dramatic opera voice, deep and broad, and the fiddles around them seemed to accompany the aria even from the distance on shore.

The town wasn't large; it was one bead in the entire string of the necklace. Each island was different, but the entire string made Venezia what it was. Athrun's outfit was dark blood-maroon color with silver details around his collar, cuffs and the hem of the long coat, and his face was nearly hidden by the white and silver mask with a black-and-white diamond chessboard pattern on one side. She looked at him, and grinned.

"What?" He said in slight annoyance, "I couldn't disobey orders, could I?"

"No," She agreed readily, "But-,"

"You're walking the streets in a gown," Athrun interrupted, a slight smirk painted in his voice, that she could tell even if she couldn't' see his face properly, "And you have a cat mask on your face. You probably don't have the right to draw attention to the assigned clothes."

This was true. Her gown was a musty white color with gold leaves painted on the puffed sleeves and opal fabric that fit the rest of her arms like a second skin. The collar and bib that reached her throat and the edge of her shoulders was a show of prudishness- the front was fully split after passing the full ruby pin she wore at the hollow of her neck, and gathered at the underarms to reveal a teasing hint of her creamy chest before it carried onto her tight bodice as a single fabric. But under her full train, she had the sole comfort of wearing boots that made walking a pleasure.

"Come," Athrun said smilingly, "There's a whole lot to see that we haven't yet.

She nodded to show her assent and walked by his side, pausing to stare at jugglers and the tiny dogs they conjured out of golden eggs. The people were dressed in the time of another world, praying through their frivolous songs of love and amour and their wild quests for celebration, fighting to live, fighting to show that the other side of the island wasn't grey, desolate, and abandoned. How many people had perished in the war? How many would not be joining the celebrations today?

"Let's ride one," Cagalli suggested to Athrun, pointing at a single gondola, "If we ride through the waterways, we might spot them. I hope they aren't frantically searching for us."

"Let's," Athrun said lightly, his emerald eyes flickered behind the almond-shaped slits of his mask, "But I don't think they'll be searching for us in the nature you mentioned of. This is after all, a carnival."

She could tell that he was smiling behind his mask from the way he lifted her hand and helped her into a slim but sturdy gondola. The undine turned around and greeted them in rapid-fire Italian, and Athrun simply pressed some money into his hand and motioned that they wanted an entire tour.

It was then that Cagalli noticed a child hiding behind the well-built man's waist, wearing a patchwork outfit that seemed to have been made of the scrap cloth of each undine's shirt. The dark blue nautical stripes seemed to flow everywhere, as did little squares of black linen that must have been the spare portions of the pants, and the boy had a red scarf tied around his neck as did his father. Both the man and the boy wore their straw hats, tilted at angles that revealed sunny faces and a merry youth.

"Hello," Cagalli called brightly, "Come here."

His father, already beginning to pick up his oar, affectionately cuffed the boy on the ear, and the child pattered towards her. Athrun, sitting opposite her, was looking now. As the gondola began its streamline path into the waterways, the weed, thick and green in the spring air, spread its slimy fingers and shifted. And Cagalli understood that the boy, not older than ten, was a regular passenger on gondolas. As the boat moved, its initial stages a little rocky and grinding against the more narrow sides of the wooden docks, the child moved over so lightly and so steadily that he might have been a fairy-child.

She looked into his face, milky white slightly browned by the sun, and his eyes were a startling blue that mirrored the sea and sky. His hair, under the straw hat, curled faintly and mischievously like the tail of a drake, and it was a rich auburn. They stared at each other, their curiosity growing stronger, for they were of the same height since she was seated, and said curiously, "Why are you here?"

"My son," The undine called from the front, he was fluent although his foreign tongue was heavily-accented with Italian, "And the love of my life."

He turned back to face the seas, and only Athrun had caught the flash of pain that had struck across the man's eyes.

"I see," Cagalli laughed, her voice was filled with a lovely innocence, and she stroked his plump cheek with a feather-light touch, "You must help your father every day, don't you?"

The child grinned, and she unconsciously lifted the mask off her face to get a better look at the Raphaelite cherub who was this boy. The child's eyes widened, but she did not understand the awe in his face and the pleasure in his blue eyes, although Athrun did.

For Athrun had seen what the boy had. A semi-instant before Cagalli had lifted her mask, a soft sunbeam had prod its way form the clouds and shone behind her, making her golden hair look like a halo and her face glow, giving it a burnished beauty that had already existed under her mask. It now lay redundantly on her lap, its black ribbons slipped and insignificant against the shining white and the gold of her gown. If the child had looked like an angel, then Cagalli took on the appearance of a seraph. Both the boy and the man were entranced. The boy's father, however, was concentrating on the seas.

"I've seen you before," The boy whispered, and she started, a look of mortal surprise entering her face. "I've seen you on the television set Bella owns."

"Keep it a secret," Athrun said softly to the child, turning him so that he faced Athrun, although Athrun hadn't removed his mask, "Don't say anything."

"Alright," The boy agreed sweetly, "I won't say the Princess is here."

Solemnly, the boy and man shook hands, the boy glancing at him now and then, wondering what his face looked like under the mask.

And then, as they glided into the open seas, the white gulls calling to their mates and friends high above the seas, the undine paused and fitted his oar back, and their attention was focused on the child. He stood shyly before them, and took off his hat.

And he closed his eyes and began to sing in a strange, sweet mezzo-soprano, of love and life, both lost by the tide of time and the ravages of ancient wars. He was but a child, but something in his clear, high voice resembled a lark that was waiting for its mate to return to its nest and would never see the day when its wish was fulfilled.

And Athrun understood this as well, for he had glimpsed a metal-automaton leg under the boy's pants when the boat had rocked a little. He must have had lost his limb during the war. Athrun's mouth was a line of pain, and he was glad that his mask was not a semi-shrouding one like Cagalli's.

The seas whispered their soft promises and the winds sang their whistling symphonies. The gulls circled above their heads, like angles with black-tipped wings.

Cagalli found herself clapping harder than she would have ever clapped for anything, and realized, with a jolt, that Athrun was doing the same.

They were traveling in the waterways now, no longer in the stretch of the sea, and she eagerly scanned the faces on one side, Athrun doing the same but on the other. And they were partially annoyed and yet, not entirely disappointed to find that they could not spot the two ministers who were amongst the frolicking crowds. They stepped out eventually, and the child kissed her on her cheek, and she blushed before she slid her mask back on and tied the ribbons. Athrun stood silent, but beneath his mask, he was smiling.

They set off at a brisk trot towards the town square once more, and they passed the Bridge of Sighs. The pigeons were cooing lustfully and she grinned, swept away by the world here and the understanding that they were together in this wide, immense world of blinding colors and endless music.

And then, the gigantic orchestra in the middle of the weather, fawn-colored stones their feet trod on, began to play. The cellos were no longer supporting the frivolous and attention-seeking tunes of the viols, now, they were being used in full-bow, their voices rising above every other brass and woodwind, weeping and telling a story Venezia understood. The flutes were no longer piping their sharp, sweet melodies, now, they were soaring in melancholy streams of melodies, soft and sad in their phrases, each note faded off into a palpitable air. This was no festival song- it was a song of heartache and loss.

Cagalli turned around, the world spinning, the men and women were no longer laughing and talking of light-hearted, happy things, they were in each other's arms, waltzing now, tears shining in their eyes and some women were openly sobbing on their partner's shoulders for those they'd lost, their sisters, their brothers, their children, their husbands, their fathers and mothers, their aunts, uncles- people they'd outlived.

"Athrun," She whispered, not turning around, her eyes were still fixed on the things around her, "What do we do?"

"This," He said softly, and she looked back at him, and in the next instant, she was whirled into his arms, and he was brining her into the triple-meter of the waltz. She could hardly protest as they faded into the crowds, each pair lost in their partner's gazes, her own yes were fixed on the mask of white and ebony intertwined, and the emerald pieces beneath the gaps the mask held. He was faceless, only his arms and his feet mattered as she stepped precisely after him. He revealed nothing on his face, now, his face was not even revealed.

She listened to the waltz, it was curious and mysterious to hear, it was building its crescendo into a sweeping, broad horizon of moaning and weeping viols, and the conductor was doubled over, his arms making graceful arcs in the air, high above the sounds his orchestra was producing. And her heart was heavy and ached, it was unfair, especially how she had meant for today to be a holiday for her and him, to be reminded of everything they'd lost when they were only beginning to find what they had left, it was so unfair-

Athrun held her close, feeling the silk of her palms in the small hands he held, and his eyes traced the wet streams that flowed beyond the edge of the white cat mask, the same tears that slid off her chin and dropped onto the dress and the stones their feet were moving over. But he did not say anything, he only carried her through the steps of the waltz, his hands tighter on her waist and her hand while the tips of the cat mask pointed down with the rest of her head.

The song ended, and he still did not let go. The cat's ears were still facing down.

And the orchestra struck up again, this time with an entire shit of tempo and style, the song was merry and bright again, and the people forgot a little of their pain and began to shift again, the crowds sifted and they carried on with the carnivale.

Slowly, even though Athrun did not let go, he head lifted, and he saw that the tears had dried and her lips were pink and curved gratefully, for his silence and his strength.

Suddenly, they did not know where they were, they had escaped the mad crush of the garish crowds and the open arms of the sea that extended beyond the little brown line that was the dock, and they were in the corner of an alley, the shops bright but empty as their keepers celebrated for the day.

They gazed into the orange-lighted glass windows, paints lay abandoned at the tables, the glasses were not blown properly, people were out in the streets, celebrating, trying to forget those they'd lost, trying to forget the pain they'd become so accustomed to tasting-

She pressed against him urgently, her body above his as they stood against a corner wall, one hand on his shoulder blade, and the other splayed against the side of the porcelain mask. And the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon floated from the edge of the vacant shop house at the end, tantalizing and hollow in the cold of the air and the misty, insubstantial clouds that were their breaths. His back was pressed against the rough stone bricks of the darkened corner they were at, and the only strip of light came from the slender blue ribbon of the sky that peeped from above the narrow path.

And slowly, her fingertips lifted his oval mask and slid hesitantly against the smooth skin she had exposed. Her eyes were fixed near his chin; she didn't dare to look into his emerald eyes. A second later, however, her mask had been undone, the silk black ribbons untied and the piece dropped; it clattered meaninglessly on the ground, followed by his, and they were kissing guiltily like lovers who had never kissed before.

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End file.
